


the knot our sunlight ties

by girlmarauders



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, M/M, Peaky Blinders AU, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 16:10:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18318734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlmarauders/pseuds/girlmarauders
Summary: EJ goes north to find work.





	the knot our sunlight ties

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [growlery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/growlery/pseuds/growlery) in the [wesmashing](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/wesmashing) collection. 



> **Prompt:**  
>  peaky blinders au, where sam is a quebecois boy who comes to the city and falls in love with ej, seasoned second in command of the gangsters
> 
> title from [Nocturne](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=22867) by Dorothy Livesay.

 

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/xeAzH4G)

 

***

 

EJ was in St. Louis, just kinda bumming around, when he got Whit's letter about a job in Canada. The letter was two months old, it had gone via his folks’ place, but Whit said there were plenty of jobs up north for guys who could fight and didn't mind if the work was legal. He could throw a punch fine, and he certainly wasn't a teetotaler, and the train fare was only a dollar. He’d worn out his welcome in St. Louis anyway, and he didn’t look back as the train left the station.

Toronto was close to the border, and easy to move goods from, and Whit had been right, there was plenty of work. He got a room in a boarding house, clean, a bit rickety, but close to the bars in the city. Canada was cold, but everyone liked to drink. Some things were universal.

Every morning he'd wake up to the sound of the street car rattling, and he'd wash and dress, as fast as possible, because it was always fucking freezing. He'd walk over to the pubs in Louisville and join the other guys looking for work, smoking cigarettes and huddled out of the wind. Every now and then a local guy would come around and pick some guys who looked strong enough or stupid enough for whatever job their gang had in mind. Running booze across the border was good money for everyone. EJ waited, and looked for work. He'd sent a precious $2 telegram to Whit, saying he was in Toronto, and he'd be there till his money ran out or he got a job.

He worked a couple of odd jobs, driving for some brewers, and in construction for a couple of weeks. It paid the rent, and kept him in tobacco. Then, he woke up and went out one morning, and there was a tall, blonde man leaning against the street railing, smoking a cigarette. He was watching the door of the boarding house, his steady gaze assessing each person who left. EJ pulled his cap a little lower over his face, just in case he was the law, but when he walked by the guy straightened up and said “Erik Johnson?”

EJ stopped and looked at him. He was handsome, high cheekbones and blonde hair under his hat. None of his clothes had holes or patches. Whoever he was, he was doing better than EJ.

“Yeah?” he said slowly, a little warily. The guy exhaled some smoke and flicked the cigarette into the snow.

“I got a tip-off you might be looking for work,” he said. He had a flat, nondescript Canadian accent, and a very light beard. EJ shrugged.

“Maybe. Who’s asking?” he said. The guy reached out his hand and EJ shook it.

“Gabe Landeskog,” he said. That didn’t answer any of EJ’s questions. “I run a betting shop, and a brewery near here, and I’m looking for strong men interested in being part of my operation.”

Gabe reached up and took off his hat, and EJ looked at him warily.

“Operation?” he asked. That was a specific way of phrasing it, and EJ thought it meant the work probably wasn’t legal, which was why the guy was soliciting it on street corners. Gabe nodded, and reached into his pocket, pulling out a packet of cigarettes. He offered one to EJ, who took it. He wasn’t in a position to turn his nose up at a gift.

Gabe lit his own cigarette, and then passed his lighter to EJ. It was nice, a fancy mechanical one with a flip head, probably expensive. EJ had been using matches the last several months. He lit his cigarette and passed it back.

“Who was your tip-off?” EJ said.

“Ryan Whitney passed a message through a mutual friend,” Gabe said.

Huh. The telegram must have done some good. Whit wasn’t what EJ would call a close friend, but they’d traded favours back and forth, as they both worked their way across the midwest. EJ shrugged.

“My friends call me EJ,” he said, and Gabe smiled.

“Alright EJ,” he said. “Welcome to the family.”

EJ was right. As soon as he stepped into the house Gabe used as a homebase, he was sure the work was only semi-legal at best. The back of the house had been hollowed out into a betting shop, and there were men in the courtyard decanting spirits into bottles for transport. He was shown to a narrow bedroom at the top of the stairs in the house. He was under the impression is was the worst, and therefore the last-claimed.

“This is my wife Mel,” Gabe said, introducing him to the blonde woman who showed him to his room. She smiled at him thinly.

“Breakfast is on the table at 7,” she said, watching EJ put his single bag on the bed from the doorway of the room. EJ nodded at her.

“Thank you ma’m,” he said. She was pretty, but thin, in the kind of clean, middling clothes a landlady wore, brown boots visible under her ankle-length skirt.

“Mel is fine,” she said. “We’re all happy families here. Gabe’ll see you downstairs.”

She turned and left him staring at the bare walls of the room. The houses were tightly packed in this part of town, and somewhere nearby he could hear a baby crying. He patted his coat pocket, checking he had his cigarettes. There was a knife, and an old revolver in his bag, and he debated getting them out. Better not, until he understood the job better.

The staircase was narrow, and creaked ominously on his way down. The front hall had a door to the kitchen, and through to the betting hall, where men filed through the backdoor to place their bets, holding their hats in their hands. It was cold outside and in, and EJ could see their cracked knuckles, a few of them with cigarettes clenched between their lips. There was only one other room, an office walled off from the main room with thin wood, and one dusty window, the glass too grimy to see through. Through the open door, EJ could see Gabe sitting at a desk, talking to someone. He paused in the doorway and Gabe looked up. A tall blonde man, his face as smooth as a child's, was leaning against one of the inner walls of the office, his arms crossed across his huge chest.

“EJ,” Gabe said, smiling widely. “This is Mikko."

“Hey,” Mikko said, nodding his head. He had an accent, something European. EJ took off his flatcap and reached out to shake his hand.

“Nice to meet you,” he said. Mikko’s handshake was strong, a little too strong, and EJ released it early.

“Mikko's a key part of my operation,” Gabe said. “I hope you can be the same.”

Mikko smiled toothily. One of his front teeth were missing, and EJ tongued at his own gaps absently. He was sure they were going to get along fine.

&&&

Gabe, it turned out, was a good employer. They were all paid on time every month, without fail. After breakfast on the last Sunday everyone who lived in the house would troop to the betting hall, closed on the morning of the Lord’s Day (it opened in the afternoon, after all the church services finished), and Tyson, the smiley man who managed the financials, would count out their paychecks in front of them, chatting all the while.

The house was nearly full to bursting with Gabe’s adopted wayward strays, men from across the midwest and Canada. There were a few other Swedes like him, Nemo who liked knives, and Big Carl (there was no other Carl for him to be bigger than, but the name stuck), but they came from all over, just like EJ, drifters looking for work, with no qualifications other than they didn’t mind much what they were asked to do. People talked about women with loose morals, but EJ had never met a person with looser morals than a man looking for work.

Most of them worked the security at the betting shop during the day. Gabe had a good reputation locally; he didn’t stiff you when you won, but only a fool left all that money in one room without security. The boys who worked the drink runs to the border had a comfortable schedule already, and didn’t want newcomers disturbing their routines. There was violence on the border usually, and Mikko had a crew he trusted, the big Russian with the silly name, and Mark the Italian.

EJ sat on a rickety chair behind the money-counting station. Most days, Tyson worked the desk, maintaining the ledger and counting out winnings, and today was no different, Tyson licking his fingers carefully when he turned the page of the ledger. EJ tipped the chair back, the leg creaking, and Tyson turned to raise an eyebrow at him.

“You’re new,” he said, going back to his desk. EJ rocked the chair again, and pulled his tobacco from the inside pocket of his jacket.

“Mmmhhhm,” EJ agreed, rolling the tabacco up inside a paper.

“Where are you from? Canadian?” Tyson asked. EJ shook his head, pinching the ends of his cigarette, and looked up, realising Tyson couldn’t see him.

“American,” he said. “I’m from Minnesota. You?”

“Hockey country,” Tyson said happily. “I’m from Victoria, out west.”

EJ rolled a second cigarette, tucking the first behind his ear.

“How’d you end up here?” he asked, just passing the time. Tyson hadn’t turned back from his ledger. Across the front of Tyson’s desk was a metal railing, with an opening for him to pass money through. Outside the railing, the betting room flowed with activity. By the door to the courtyard, Gabe was smoking a cigarette and talking to Mikko, one of his hands in his trouser pocket. Seemingly without cause, he looked up and across the room directly at Tyson. EJ didn't think Tyson realised EJ could see his expression, but Tyson’s mouth curled into an easy smile, nearly fond, under Gabe’s gaze.

“My dad runs a betting shop,” Tyson said, and then paused. “When Gabe set up shop here, he poached me.”

EJ put his cigarette in his mouth, and hunted out his matches from his waistcoat pocket.

“He’s good at that then,” he said, striking a match and putting it to the end of his smoke. Tyson turned at that, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Tyson said, like he was admitting something. “He's charming.”

“Good-looking guy,” EJ said. It was a normal, expected thing to say about a guy. Gabe was good-looking, there wasn't any denying it, what was the point in pretending he hadn't noticed the obvious? This was a new place, new people. They’d have no suspicions about him, and he wasn’t going to give them anything to suspect. It had been two years since he’d been caught in Boston with a man, and there had been no charges, he had given a false name. There was no one to accuse him.

The fear tasted stale, chalky in his mouth, old and familiar. He didn’t feel it every day, but it was moments like this, that should have been normal, fearless, that brought the bile rising in his throat, twisting in his gut. He didn't move, and Tyson only chuckled, turning away.

“Yeah, he's a weapon,” he said, and that was it, the fear receding.

&&&

It was late when the knock at the door came. He was sitting on his bed, cleaning the revolver, and he set it aside, closing the chamber.

“Come in,” he said, and it was Gabe that opened the door.

“Good, you’re still up,” he said. “There’s been a bit of trouble down the road, I thought we might stop by and see if we could help.”

“Help?” EJ asked. Gabe smiled wolfishly, and looked across to the knife on the dresser.

“Leave the gun, but you might want that,” he said. EJ set the gun aside, and put the switchblade in his pocket. In the hall, Big Carl was leaning against the wall, and Nemo was waiting, one hand in his pocket, the other flicking one of his blades open and closed. “Let’s go,” Gabe said, and the knife closed with a fast snick. EJ ran his hand through his hair and put on his cap.

“What kind of trouble is it?” he said. Gabe was already at the top of the stairs, and Nemo and Carl followed both of them down, through the hall where Gabe paused for a second to kiss Mel’s cheek, and then out the front door.

“Some people think it’s appropriate to work for me, and then take from me,” Gabe said. He didn’t sound angry. He sounded almost cheerful, pleased to be doing something. The street was dark, punctured with yellow patches of light from the streetlamps. This was a crowded, busy part of town, where families piled on top of each other in cramped houses, and even at this hour most of the doors were open, noise spilling out.

A child, no more than 8, ran across the street, his shoes slapping the street. They were too big.

The group of them rounded a corner and Gabe nodded at an open door, the windows of the house shuttered.

“Are you sure?” Nemo said, in an incredulous voice, his accent lifting the question higher. Gabe raised an eyebrow.

“A handful of our American friends have gotten a little bolder with their skimming than I appreciate,” he said calmly, as if explaining. “Usually I'd send Z to explain things to them. He likes to use short words, his English isn't that good. But he's out of town on an errand. I thought a fellow countryman might put our friends at ease while we...explain our displeasure.”

“Explain?” EJ asked, taking his cap off. Nemo smiled. It was not a nice smile.

“Explain forcefully,” he said. Big Carl said nothing, but then, he never did. He flexed his fingers, and then tightened them into a fist.

Gabe walked ahead of them, walking like he owned the street. He nearly did. They followed, trailing in his wake.

There was a woman in the front hall. When she saw them, her eyes widened in fright and she raised her hands, dropping the clothes she'd been carrying.

“No fear Mrs. Carruth,” Gabe said, in a calming, charming voice. “We're just here to see the boys.”

Her mouth opened and closed a couple of times, clearly finding her courage.

“I don't want any trouble,” she said, her voice shaking. Gabe had bent to pick up her washing, and now he returned it to her arms, with his most winning smile.

“You should have thought about that before you let the Carter boys into your home,” he said, as kindly as if he was wishing her well. Her eyes flicked to the door to the parlour room, and Gabe smiled at her. “Good day Mrs. Carruth,” he said, and looked at Nemo, jerking his head at the door. He yanked the door open and Big Carl followed him, ducking slightly under the doorjam. EJ flanked Gabe’s other side, and Nemo closed the door behind them, almost softly.

The parlour was well-worn, but tidy, something Mrs. Carruth must have once been proud of. A card game was abandoned on the round table in the centre of the room. The four men around it had stood as soon as the door opened, hands reaching towards pockets for weapons.

“Hello boys,” Gabe said. One of the men took his hat off slowly. He nodded.

“Landeskog,” he said. His brown hair was slicked back from his face. Gabe pointed at him.

“You take from me, Alex Carter, and you suffer the consequences,” he said. “You knew that, but you did it anyway.”

Carter spread his hands.

“We don’t know what you’re talking about, do we boys?” he said. He sounded slimy.

The “boys” shook their heads.

“No sir,” one of them said. “Not a clue.”

“Shut up Johnny,” Carter hissed, and John, blonde and a little vacant behind the eyes, looked sheepish. EJ could tell one of them was reaching for a knife, the familiar shape in his trouser pocket and the slow movement of his hand, the squirrelly look in his eyes.

The third man raised an eyebrow and pointed at EJ.

“He’s new,” he said. Gabe smiled wolfishly. 

“You’ll like him Tim,” he said. “He’s American.”

Tim made a confused face. EJ wasn’t getting the impression they were particularly bright.

Then, with only a split-second warning, the one with his hand in his pocket pulled out his hand, clearly holding a knife, and lunged straight for Gabe. There wasn’t time for any of them to react, but Gabe barely seemed phased, turning almost casually and letting him go lunging past, straight into the path of Carl, who was smiling hugely. He swung, his fist connecting with the knife-holder’s face with a crunching sound familiar after years of fights.

Then the fight truly kicked off. Alex Carter dove for Gabe, and then the stupid one, Johnny, dodged around one of the chairs and squared off with EJ, raising his fists. EJ rolled his eyes. What was this, a fucking boxing ring?

“You’re dumb as a bag of rocks,” he said, and then Johnny was swinging, his face red with anger.

EJ hadn’t been born a fighter, but he had learned it quickly, chippy, dirty fighting as a kid on the streets between houses. Bloomington had been small, but there had been plenty of kids scrambling over each other to teach him how to be scrappy. He didn’t fight pretty, or graceful, and he wasn’t particularly good with any fancy weapons. He was just a stubborn son of a bitch.

Johnny’s punch went high, and he moved away from it, letting it slide past, and punched him in the chest, right in the centre. Everyone always expected you to go for the face, and left their heart unprotected. He stumbled back, and EJ ducked a wild swing.

“Fuck!” someone swore, and EJ looked over to see Carl clutching his arm, blood welling up between his fingers. The big man with the knife had got him on the arm, and it looked bad.

“Carl!” Gabe shouted, but he was busy. He had his hand on Carter’s collar, holding him in place, and blood on his knuckles, but Carter was fighting back, flailing wildly.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Carl said, in his flat accent. EJ dodged as Johnny came back, and then he couldn’t see what Carl and Nemo were doing because he was grappling with Johnny, crashing into the chair and then one of the walls. His head cracked off the wall and goddamn, that _hurt._ He jerked himself out of Johnny’s grip and elbowed him hard in the side, hearing him gasp, and then pulled him and rolled, smacking him against the wall. He swayed.

“Stay down,” EJ said. The dumb fuck didn’t listen, and groggily tried to punch him. He missed, and EJ rolled his eyes. He punched him in the face, and his head hit the wall with a thump and he slid to the ground, out cold.

Fucking finally. He flexed his hand, his knuckles stung, and looked around. The room was quiet now. Carl was tying something around his arm, it looked like a strip of the table cloth, sitting at one of the chairs. Gabe’s nose was bleeding and he held his hand to it to stem the flow, as he bent over the guy they had called Tim. The other guys had been knocked out, Carl and Gabe both with marked up knuckles.

“Goddamnit Nemo, you killed him.” Gabe said, leaning back. Nemo flicked his knife closed. There was blood on his hands. He shrugged.

“He had a knife,” he said. Gabe sighed, and used one of the handkerchiefs on the table to wipe the blood off his face.

“I told you to be more careful,” he said. “Well, Carl, where are we putting him? Humber or the Don?”

Carl looked up from his arm.

“Don’s closer,” he said.

“Fine, we’re putting him in the Don. EJ, you help Carl.” Gabe gestured from them to the dead guy. They’d left Carter passed out in the room’s only arm chair, and Gabe bent down to look in his face, slapping him gently until he woke up, groggily blinking.

“Carter, Carter, hey look, your buddy Tim’s dead,” Gabe said.

“Wha-” Carter said groggily. A lump was developing quickly on his forehead. Gabe pushed him back down.

“Look, no hard feelings okay, we’re gonna go drop him in the Don. He got a wife?”

Carl had pulled the dead guy out into a little open area of the room and pulled him onto his shoulder. He paused at an awkward angle and looked at EJ, who remembered what he was supposed to be doing, and helped push the dead guy into a fireman carry over Carl’s shoulder. Carl grunted and stood

Carter shook his head. He was too out of it to know what was going on.

“No wife,” he slurred. “Sister in Markham.”

“Good,” Gabe said. “I’ll make sure she gets his things and some money for the family. See you don’t steal from me again.”

“Yes sir,” Carter said, and Gabe let him drop back in the chair.

“We’ll meet you back at the Maple Leaf, alright?” Gabe said, as they left the house, Mrs. Carruth nowhere to be seen. If she was smart, she’d make herself scarce. Carl nodded, and EJ just said “yeah”.

Carl didn’t talk much, and the walk through Louisville and the edge of Chinatown was quiet. No one wanted to get close enough to see their bloody clothes, or how the body Carl carried sagged. EJ wasn’t phased by the dead man, he had seen plenty of bodies before. They’d said the war either made you too soft, or too hard, and he was pretty sure he knew what it had done to him. This dead guy had all his arms and legs, and his face was where he’d left it.

The scraggly bit of park around the Don was dark, but not quiet. If you listened, you could hear what sounded like bulldaggers going at it behind some bushes. He didn’t comment, and, thank god, neither did Carl.

The banks of the Don were steep, so there was nothing for it. EJ collected some rocks and stuffed the guys pockets, and then they went to the bridge, empty at the time of night, and tipped the body over the edge into the cold water. EJ watched it fall and heard the splash as it hit the water.

They both turned for the walk back to Louisville, where Gabe and Nemo were waiting.

&&&

The Maple Leaf was a dirty, grubby bar, full of smoke and the smell of spilled alcohol, but no one bothered Gabe and his boys there, and the drinks were cheap. Joe, who owned the bar, kept a booth in the side reserved for Gabe, and EJ and Carl both walked directly across the bar, where a few men were still drinking, to the booth where Nemo and Gabe waited.

“All done?” Gabe asked, as they dropped onto the bench. Carl nodded.

“All done,” EJ said, and took the pint when Gabe put it in his hand. Both of them had put their jackets on once they’d dumped the body, but it was dirty work. There was blood on Carl’s shirtsleeves. EJ looked clean enough. He gulped the beer. Dirty, unpleasant work, but what else was there?

Gabe clapped him on the shoulder.

“You did well. Carter won’t steal from us again,” he said. EJ nodded.

“Thanks,” he said. Gabe looked at him, and then, distracted, looked over his shoulder, something catching his eye.

“Rants!” Gabe shouted, raising a hand. Mikko was drinking at another table, and he stood and walked over, all of the long muscled mile of his body. He had a open, handsome face, but when he walked like this, across the smoky bar, he looked dangerous. He sat heavily in the booth, across from EJ, Nemo and Carl moving up to give him space.

Gabe stretched out his arm along the back of the booth, looking like the king of his castle. In a way, he was. The Maple Leaf paid protection to Gabe’s gang, every month without fail. He smirked, and even in the low light, he looked handsome, and golden.

“Well boys, now that we’ve dealt with that minor headache, I’ve got big plans. Big plans,” he said. Mikko grinned, and, even on his naturally happy face, it looked threatening.

They drank comfortably for an hour. They were good guys, and EJ liked them. No one picked at anyone else, and Mikko had a sense of humour so durable to embarrassment it could probably stop bullets. He told a couple of stories from his time in St. Louis, and got a couple laughs, even from Big Carl.

When the beer ran out, Gabe nudged the empty pitcher at EJ, the closest to the bar.

“Fetch us a refill, yeah?” he said, and went back to listening to Mikko tell a joke. EJ shrugged and went. Gabe was paying, and EJ was thirsty. He also wouldn't mind the numbness enough of the beer would bring. He didn't feel any sorrow, or repentance, but he did have dreams, like any man.

The bar had a few men drinking, but EJ leaned his elbows on an empty patch, waiting. Graeme, the old man who owned the pub, was busy, and the boy - he couldn’t be older than 19 - stopped at the bar, and looked up. He had deep brown eyes, big and tired looking, framed by a curl of brown hair that fell over onto his forehead. For a second, neither of them said anything, the boy waiting with his lips just parted. The moment stretched, and then EJ realised he was staring, and shook himself, putting the pitcher on the bar and pushing it across.

“Just fill it up,” he said, and the boy nodded. He had a shadow of stubble across his upper lip, and his chin, and it made him look young, his hair curling at the ends.

“Yes sir,” he said, and his accent strongly lisped over the sounds. He reached for the pitcher, and EJ didn’t think, just grabbed his wrist quickly, before he could pull his hand back. The boy’s eyes flicked up in surprise, from his hand to EJ’s face, searching his face quickly.

“Not sir,” EJ said. “Just EJ.”

For a long second, he didn’t let go. He saw Graeme, down the end of the bar, look up and watch them, but no one said anything. Slowly, feeling a little embarrassed, he released his hold on the boy’s wrist.

The boy licked his lips, and took the pitcher, nodding.

“EJ,” he said, his accent long on the E. He smiled tentatively. “I’m Sam.”

He pulled the tap down, and looked away while the pitcher filled, for all the world like he was focused on the beer. But then, for just a second, EJ saw him look up through his eyelashes, watching EJ carefully. They made eye contact, and Sam smiled slyly, like a secret shared moment between them. EJ couldn’t help but smile back, and then caught himself when Graeme moved closer.

“No charge,” Graeme said gruffly, when Sam put the pitcher on the bar, and Sam looked curious. The reasons for free service were never good.

“Thanks,” EJ said. “See you around Sam.”

He drank with Gabe and the boys for another two hours, until Gabe called it a night and sent them all stumbling home, but he felt like a compass pulled towards a magnet the whole time, his body tracking Sam around the bar without having to look, always aware where he was. His quiet, sly smile stuck in EJ’s mind, not dislodged by the beer or sleep. His dreams were not of the dead man, but of Sam’s deep, brown eyes, inescapable, fathomless.

&&&

The fight with Carter opened the doors for EJ to do more. Gabe used him as a driver when Mikko was away on business, and they would sit up together, the thin group of men Gabe trusted, in Mel’s kitchen, drinking the newly brewed hooch, and talking about Gabe’s plans. Men like Carter were common, small-time criminals who thought they could skim off Gabe’s good fortune, and EJ was in three more fights before the month was up, one which killed a man in the street when Mark the Italian fired his gun.

The next day, there was a policeman in the kitchen when EJ came down for breakfast, his helmet on the table while he ate a plate of Mel’s sausage and eggs. Across from him, Tyson was counting money patiently, rolling thin shinplaster bills into tight wads. Mel looked up from the stove, and shoveled eggs and sausage onto a plate, nodding at him. She never spoke much, though she would usually stay to pour during the gang’s nighttime meetings. EJ always worried he had done something to annoy her.

He took the plate and sat next to Tyson, looking across at the strange police office. When he looked up, EJ smiled, exposing all his gums. He wasn’t winning any prizes for his looks.

“Tys,” the copper said, and Tys looked up, his face blank, until the copper looked between EJ and Tyson significantly.

“Oh!” he said, and put the money he was rolling down. “Nate, this is EJ, he moved in a few weeks ago. EJ, this is Nate, he's our local copper.”

“Hi,” EJ said with a nod, and tucked into his breakfast. He had learned a long time ago not to linger over a free meal, or say too much to policemen.

“A man died last night,” Nate said, clearly picking up a conversational thread with Tyson.

“It happens,” Tyson said. He didn't sound concerned, for all that his job rarely brought him into contact with violent work. He’d come from a gang out west. He knew men who'd gone west after the war, from his platoon, or back home. It wasn't any gentler out there. Tyson would have seen it all before. Nate sighed.

“I have to report on his death,” he said, and Tyson shrugged, as if saying ‘not my problem’.

“I’ve already made a contribution to his family for their expenses,” Gabe said, from the doorway, and they all turned. His face was a little creased with tiredness, but his suit was pressed and clean.

“That doesn’t bring him back,” Nate said. Gabe shrugged, and paused to kiss Mel’s cheek.

“I’m not in the business of raising the dead, Nate,” he said. “A man is dead, and that’s a shame. But, as you say, my contrition won’t bring him back.”

Gabe sat at the end of the table, crosswises to them, and started eating. Nate did not look pleased, and fidgeted with his helmet. Gabe sighed, and put his fork down.

“Tyson, what’s my current contribution to the widow’s and orphan’s fund?” he asked. Tyson thumbed a wad of notes.

“$50 a month,” he said easily. “With ad-hoc contributions for deaths and illness.”

“Add another 50 this month,” Gabe said. He leaned back to light a cigarette. “It’s been a cold winter. I don’t want anyone to struggle.”

Nate blushed pink, inexplicably. EJ got the heavy impression there was something else being discussed that he didn’t understand, and continued eating. There was a long pause, and then Nate picked up his helmet and stood, tucking it under one arm.

“Ma’m,” he said, and nodded to Mel. She smiled thinly, and then he stepped out the side kitchen door. The only sound was Mel clattering noisily at the stove. EJ sat up when Gabe looked at him, trying to look alert.

“Nate’s our local copper,” he said, still smoking. “His conscience bothers him occasionally.”

Tyson made a face.  

“He’s doing his best,” he said, a little defensively. Gabe put his cigarette out in the tray at the middle of the table and stood.

“Well, he can do his best with my $50 in his pocket,” he said. Tyson rolled his eyes and went back to counting money. Gabe paused for a second to put his hand on Tyson’s shoulder, and EJ didn’t think either of them realised the way both their faces went soft with fondness. He looked away before Gabe could catch him watching.

“EJ, with me,” Gabe said, and jerked his head. The courtyard outside the house was cold, but no new snow had fallen that week. The cold, damp Toronto Spring was still some way off.

“The widows and orphans fund,” EJ said, when they paused at the garage door. “It’s bribes isn’t it?”

Gabe smiled his handsome winning smile, and, even expecting it, EJ felt himself warm a little.

“You’d be surprised how much of the bribes actually do go to widows and orphans, you know,” he said, completely unapologetically. He paused at the door of the car. “Nate knows what’s good for him. There won’t be any trouble. Now, get in the car, there’s a shipment cross town I want to have a look at.”

&&&

EJ had thought the winter was near to ending, but it took a hard turn colder, and the ponds and rinks refroze. He'd grown up playing hockey on the shallow, garbage-throttled canal in his old neighbourhood, but he hadn't been prepared for the hockey madness that settled over the entire city. The ponds were freezing over one by one and kids were skating everywhere they could manage.

He woke one frozen morning, the heavy greyness of the sky low to the ground and nearly overburdened with ice, and found half the house gathered around the long table in the betting hall. It was usually strewn with betting slips and stubby pencils, but now it was heaped with skates and gear. There were a bushel of sticks, pale beech coloured, leaning against the one of the chairs.

“The canal froze last night,” Tyson said, when he noticed EJ standing at the edge of the table. “Some of the local boys are organising a game.”

“And Donaldson, who coaches that rabble he calls a team, owed me a favor,” Gabe said, expansively. “I think we can probably manage a pretty good game of shinny, eh?”

Mikko whooped, and waved the stick he was holding.

“You're going down Landy,” he said, and Gabe just laughed.

Gabe wasn't wrong. Between them all, they had a pretty decent team. They all wore their warmest clothes and boots and trekked down to the canal, which had, indeed, frozen solid overnight. A handful of local boys EJ recognised from the Maple Leaf were skating, and he watched them when he sat down to put on his skates, snow soaking into his trousers.

Someone stopped in front of him, skates scratching, and he looked up and it was Sam, the boy from the bar, grinning in a knit cap, his hair curling up around the edges. He looked different when he smiled, younger.

“EJ,” he said happily. His smile was infectious, and EJ couldn't help but smile back.

“Hi Sam,” he said.

“You remembered,” Sam said. His accent was so different, soft over the sounds of the word. EJ finished tying his skate, and took Sam's hand to help pull him to his feet on the ice. The balance felt familiar, even after all this time. “Are you going to play hockey with us?” Sam asked. He didn’t pronounce the H, it was just _‘ocki_.

EJ nodded.

“I was pretty good back in Minnesota,” he said, and Sam’s small smile cracked into a big grin.

“Oh, yeah?” he said. He was holding a stick, and he leaned on it, his hands in mittens folding over the top. “You’ll have to show me.”

Sam’s dark eyes had been intoxicating in the late night gloom of the Maple Leaf, but now the were lively and bright, like warm stones. EJ felt too large and too clumsy, too haggard after years of hard life, painfully aware of his scars and missing teeth. Some sort of sprite, the spirits his mother had cursed whenever things went wrong, had to be the reason why Sam even gave him the time of day.

“EJ!” Gabe shouted from further down the canal, and waved him over when he turned. He couldn’t help but look back at Sam, who was just smiling and waiting with the local boys. Gabe bossed them all around a little, and then they composed their teams, and piled snow on the ice to make the goals. The game was fast and chippy, none of them following any sort of rules, the teams confused, and everyone loud. Mikko shoved and chirped everyone in his incomprehensible accent.

At one point, EJ found himself face-to-face with Sam, the puck on Sam’s stick. He thought he had it under control. He went for the poke check, and then all of a sudden, Sam spun around and past him, already strides away by the time he had realised what was going on.

“What the hell?” he said, but Sam had already scored and his teammates were whooping and slapping him on the back. EJ knew he wasn't actually that small, but he looked tiny, dwarfed by the men around him.

Gabe skated up and clapped EJ's shoulder, laughing.

“He got you good there,” he said, and EJ shook his head. He couldn't help but smile.

“Kid's got moves,” EJ said. When his team let him go, Sam skated over. He looked pleased with himself.

“You undressed me, huh?” EJ said, and Sam tipped his head to the side.

“Undressed?” he asked. EJ waved a hand.

“Made me look stupid. With your dipsy-doodle thing,” he said, making a spinning motion with his finger. Sam smiled.

“You liked it?” he asked. EJ shook his head ruefully.

“I'd like it more if you were on my team,” he said, and Sam shrugged.

“Okay,” he said. “I play with you then.”

He turned his head and shouted over his shoulder. It wasn't in English, and it took a moment for EJ to realise it was French. One of his teammates shouted back, and then Sam tapped his stick against EJ's.

“I play with you now,” he said, and it really was that simple, in a game of shinny.

“Where are you from?” he asked, while the game reformed. Gabe was arguing with one of the French guys about who was taking Sam’s place, because Gabe refused to give Tyson up, and Nemo pretended not to understand English any time they tried to make him swap.

“Quebec,” Sam said. “Long way away.”

“Not so far,” EJ said. It was a day's drive, maybe two, to Montreal. Sam shrugged.

“Small town,” he said. “It's a long way. Not a lot of work, so I come here. I have friends in the city, there are other Quebecois. Graeme at the Maple Leaf, he gave me a job.” He shrugged, and looked up at EJ. He couldn’t help but think of the look as sly, though he was sure Sam meant nothing of it. He tried not to read into it too much. That way lay madness, and mistakes he could not take back. Better to hold back, to think of Sam as just a friend, another one of the guys.

Sam licked his lips, and EJ watched his tongue move, feeling mute. Well, he wasn’t perfect. He was only human, just a man, and Sam was something else, sent to torture him, or reward him, he wasn’t sure.

“And you?” Sam said. “We’re not in Minnesota.”

EJ fumbled the response for a second, because he wasn’t expecting to be asked anything. He wasn’t that interesting.

“I’m American,” he said. “I’m from Bloomington. Worked odd jobs for a while, got drafted, went to France, came home. Couldn’t find work in Minnesota, so I went to Chicago, and then Boston, and then St. Louis. Friend told me there was work here, so I came here.” He shrugged. “It’s cold as a witch’s tit, but the work’s okay.”

Sam laughed, and EJ wanted to puff his chest out like he was 19 again, and trying to impress a girl. It was the same feeling he’d felt when Annie Stephenson had told him he was sweet, the same feeling as when Tom Laval, the captain of the high school hockey team in Bloomington, had laughed at his jokes. He was such a schmuck.

“It’s warm here,” Sam said, teasingly. “Everyone is a big baby about a little snow.”

“A baby?” EJ said affronted, and tangled his stick in Sam’s, both of them wrestling them to come out on top. “I’m a baby?”

“That’s what I said!” Sam teased, and they were so close, giggling and shoving, the sound of their sticks clattering.

The game went on until it got too dark to see, but when it ended EJ was still thinking about the feeling of Sam’s body against his, twisting as they rough-housed, and the sound of his laugh. They changed into their shoes at the edge of the canal, using each other to balance on one leg, and in the twilight Sam’s eyes were still the same striking flight that had caught his attention to begin with.

“Come to the Maple Leaf and see me,” Sam said. “Sometime. Any time.”

EJ knew he should be careful, he should say no, or maybe, but he was giddy with it, the feeling of being warm in his body and cold on his skin, alive with Sam’s smile.

“Okay,” he said. “I will.”

&&&

EJ couldn’t stay away. Sam was funny, sly, his smile kept pulling EJ back in. Nearly every evening he found himself in the Maple Leaf, pint in hand, leaning against the bar and doing everything he could to keep Sam’s attention on him, short of vaulting the bar. He teased, he joked, he slowly pulled out the story of Sam’s life, his brothers, one of them a logger, the other working in the sawmill, and his sister, married to another logger.

“I didn’t want that,” Sam said, telling the story, his elbows leaned on the bar. He was ignoring the work he should be doing, but EJ wasn’t going to say anything. “There’s not anything but the trees and the lake in Roberval, and no one comes to fish anymore since the hotel burned down.”

A man shouted for him from down the bar, and Sam raised a hand. His smile was mischievous.

“I didn’t want to be a logger,” he said. “So I came here. And I found you.”

He touched EJ’s shoulder, just for a second, as he moved away from the bar, and it was like an electric shock. EJ felt it across his whole body, completely unexpected yet wholly familiar, but it was just a larger version of what he felt when Sam smiled at him.

During the day, when EJ would bring a cold sandwich to the bar, and he and Sam would sit at one of the old tables, in the rickety chairs, he found himself talking about himself, something he had always tried to avoid. He was a nobody, just one of the thousands of men drifting across the country looking for something better, waiting for the law, loose living, or the drink to catch up with them. Sam didn’t seem to care. He had never left Canada. Toronto was his first time outside of Quebec. He wanted to hear about Chicago, loud, lawless, and St. Louis, where EJ had lived two doors from a new-fangled jazz club. EJ didn’t mention Boston.

Gabe hadn’t lied about his big plans. Every day, Mikko and his crew took more booze south, and brought cash north. It was dangerous work, but the city that had felt safe for them all swiftly took a turn. Gabe was expanding, sending Z and Big Carl and Ian, another recent addition, to muscle out protection rackets for their own. The Chinatown gang took badly to an incursion, and a brief scuffle put Colin, the affable blonde American who shared a room with Tyson, in bed for a week with a stab wound. EJ didn’t see it, but the rumour was that the Buffalo gang had fought Mikko’s crew over control of the border crossing, and had left their truck with a spray of bullet holes.

Gabe took EJ as his protection, and Tyson as his numbers guy to Woodbine, all three of them dressed up fancier than EJ had ever been in his life, to oversee the new betting counters that slid a cut Gabe’s way. EJ liked the races. They’d been a racetrack in Bloomington, near the boarding house his family had stayed in, and he had used to go there after school finished, hiding among the adults and pushing against the railings until they were only inches away from the thundering hooves. He had first learned to steal at the races, lifting wallets out of pockets when he was too short to be seen. This time they were in a box, above the press of the crowd, and EJ could watch the horses run from an empty railing.

He thought about bringing Sam to the race, about watching him watch the course. He put his head down on the railing, not bothering to watch the horses run. He needed to stop. He had been down this path before, and it had ended badly. He would stop. No more late evenings with Sam in the Maple Leaf. He would stay home, start going to church, write to his mother more. Tomorrow.

He lifted his head and stood, turning to look back into the box. Gabe was reclined in one of the chairs, smoking a cigarette and looking like the king of his own personal castle. Tyson sat with his elbows braced on his knees, half watching the racetrack, half watching Gabe.

“You like the horses?” Gabe said, looking at EJ. He shrugged.

“I guess,” he said. He didn't want to seem too keen. Gabe took a drag, looking thoughtful.

“We should buy a horse,” he said. He turned his head, towards Tyson’s indulgent smile. “Tys, you think we can buy a horse?”

Tyson laughed a little.

“You can afford it,” he said, and Gabe smiled back at him.

“We’ll buy a horse then,” he said. “What should we call it? It’s not a horse if it doesn’t have a good name.”

EJ leaned against the railing, and took his rolling papers out of his pocket, rolling up his tobacco and licking the edge, his tongue sticking through his gums. Tyson looked across at him, raising an eyebrow, and the looked back at Gabe, a little sly grin forming on his face.

“How about Toothless Wonder?” he said, and Gabe tipped his chair back to laugh.

“I like that!” he said, his wide, toothy grin splitting his face. “What do you think E? Wanna see your Toothless Wonder on the course?”

EJ smiled, pulling back his teeth over his top lip, exposing his gums. He’d lost most of them playing hockey, or in fights. He’d known a lot of men who lost their teeth when they got old, and now he wouldn’t have to experience that. It wasn’t all bad.

“You’ll have to get the horse first,” he said, and Gabe let his chair legs hit the floor.

“Well, I’ll take that under advisement Johnson,” he said, still smiling, and smacked his thighs. “C’mon, we’ve got some contacts to meet.”

&&&

That evening, EJ killed a man. He hadn't had a particular desire to do it. Matthew, the teetotaler who'd sometimes go rave outside the Maple Leaf on a Sunday afternoon, had never done anything to EJ in particular, but Gabe had asked him. Gabe had a way of asking you for something, and, even though you never wanted to do it, you went.

Nate had been lingering near the house when they arrived from the races, and Gabe had sighed and jerked his head at Tyson, who had gone to talk to him.

“It'll be nothing,” Gabe said easily. “Nothing worse than a nervous copper. Come inside, Mel'll be making dinner.”

Tyson didn’t come inside for another half an hour, but when he did he looked concerned, running his hand through his hairs, the curls falling to one side.

“Nate’s got bad news,” he said, and Gabe put down his knife and fork.

“Mel, go get Mikko,” he said, and Mel stood, brushing her hands on the front of her dress. They had been chatting moments before. EJ had watched them do this before, shift from marriage to partnership in a split second

“He’ll be with Nikita,” she said seriously. “Do you want them both?”

Gabe rubbed his beard, and then shook his head.

“Just Mikko. Tell Z I’ll talk to him later,” he said.

Mel was gone for a moment, and Tyson poured himself a coffee while they waited. At one point he opened his mouth, but Gabe raised a hand.

“Wait for Mikko,” he said. EJ kept eating his dinner. Even if the world was ending, he was going to feel a lot better about it with a hot dinner in his stomach.

Mikko followed Mel back into the kitchen, and she immediately went to make him up a plate.

“Bad news Landy?” Mikko asked, and Gabe nodded to Tyson.

“Nate says the police know about the guy Nemo killed back in November,” Tyson said. “Someone spoke to Matthew, and he’s got his teetotalers and the guy’s sister’s raising a stink with the cops in Markham.”

“We sent her some money, didn’t we?” Gabe asked, and Tyson shrugged.

“Apparently she liked her brother,” he said. Gabe sighed.

“How’d Matt get involved?” he asked.

“Sister’s a teetotaler. Nate said he had a detective from Markham asking questions yesterday, none of them like having the temperance league up their ass,” Tyson said. Mikko snorted.

“Yeah, yeah, very funny,” Gabe said. He was rubbing his beard again. EJ was keeping his mouth shut until someone gave him something to do. He wasn’t here to be the brains. “The only person from Louisville is Matt?”

Tyson nodded.

“He knows better than to go to Nate, but yes. Nate thinks he’s going to try and go to the Louisville police tomorrow,” he said.

“Tomorrow?” Gabe said seriously. Tyson nodded.

“We have to move fast then,” Gabe said. “Mikko, is Ian in town?”

Mikko uncrossed his arms and shook his head.

“He’s in Buffalo, with Mark,” he said. “ Most of the boys are there.”

“Damn,” Gabe said. “We don’t have time to wait for them to come back.”

Mikko jerked his head at the table. “Send us,” he said. “That’s who’ve you’ve got.”

EJ finished chewing, and put his fork and knife down.

“I can go,” he said. Gabe nodded.

“Get your gun,” he said. “Mikko’ll meet you outside.”

EJ climbed the stairs slowly. He didn’t carry his revolver as a rule, because he never wanted to use it. He had used it before, and even before that, there had been the war. He had killed men before. There were men he had known who had grown to enjoy it, or even tolerate it. That had never come for him. There was nothing that could be tolerated about killing.

He picked up his revolver from the dresser, and chambered several bullets, putting a handful in his pocket, and then turned towards the door. Time to do the job.

Afterwards, Mikko drove them. It had started to rain, and EJ caught himself watching the rain on the window. The light of the streetlamps was yellow, and streaky, catching and spreading through the water. Outside the window, EJ recognised the street.

“Wait,” he said. Mikko looked at him.

“What?” he said. EJ rapped the window.

“Let me out here. Stop the car,” he said quickly. The breaks made a noise as the car stopped, and EJ didn’t even wait for Mikko to say anything, just opened the door straight into the rain, and climbed out of the car. He hadn’t even taken a coat, or his hat, and immediately the rain trickled down the back of his neck and under his collar. It was only a few steps across the pavement and into the doorway of the Maple Leaf.

He was on autopilot, not even thinking, as he stepped through the door, into the empty hall of the pub. It was too late for there to be anyone at the bar, just the empty room, chairs on the table.

It was warm inside, dry and strongly smelling of beer, almost homely. Something across EJ’s skin felt almost like it rippled, not painful, but eerie, strange. He was being pulled out of his body, like he had fallen away from himself.

Sam was alone, and when the door opened, he looked up, his eyes widening when he saw EJ.

“EJ?” he said, just softly.

“Sam,” he said, and his voice sounded so desolate. EJ didn’t know if that was how he felt. He had no idea how he felt, but now he was here, he knew he wanted to be near Sam. He fell into one of the few chairs left, like his strings had been cut.

“Sam,” he said, again, and Sam put down the glass he was holding and stepped closer, reaching out for EJ’s shoulder, until his fingertips touched the wet fabric of EJ’s jacket.

“EJ, what happened?” he said.

EJ shook his head, and turned his head towards Sam’s arm, resting his forehead on Sam’s forearm, just for a second.

“I just...I needed to be here,” he said. Sam nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “It’s okay.”

The moment stretched out for a long moment, and then Sam slowly pulled back.

“I have to clear the tables,” he said quietly. “Can you stay here?”

EJ nodded slowly, and he watched Sam turn back to the tables. Only a handful of the lamps in the pub were lit, and as Sam moved through the light his skin and his hair would glow in the light. It was entrancing. He couldn’t look away.

Sam smiled at him.

“Usually I sing while I clean,” he said quietly, like he was sharing a joke. Something about it shook something loose inside EJ, like he was waking up.

“You sing?” he said. “Will you sing something for me?”

“I only know French songs,” Sam said gently. “They’re all sad.”

“Sad is okay,” EJ said, settling into his chair. The gun was still in his pocket.

For a long moment, Sam kept clearing glasses off the tables silently, and then he stood up straight, and it was like he grew five inches without moving. It was a different, taller version of Sam, and then he opened his mouth and sang.

The room felt all wrong. At the end of the day, the Maple Leaf was a dingy pub in Toronto’s worst neighbourhood. It didn’t know what beauty was. But Sam did, or Sam’s voice did, and EJ felt like his blood was moving too quickly around his body, as Sam’s singing came over him. The sound swelled, and then trailed off with Sam’s breath. When it stopped, EJ felt like they both inhaled, breathing freely for the first time.

In their quiet, beautiful world, alone and seperate, EJ felt he could say anything, unafraid for the first time.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, and Sam’s smile dawned over him slowly, perfectly, like a sound that rose from nothing.

&&&

A new understanding had come between them, and it buoyed EJ up every day. Sam, who was beautiful, wanted him.

Gabe noticed EJ's good mood, although he didn't know the reason. One morning, before Gabe had woken up, and EJ was eating his breakfast in the kitchen, Mel paused to pat his hand on her way out the door.

“You know,” she said idly. “We like Sam. He's a good boy.”

For a second, EJ was frozen in place, and then she patted his hand again and walked out the kitchen door like she’d said nothing at all. He finally breathed, and finished his breakfast. Gabe and him worked all day, and drove out to the farm that sent grain to the distillery. He was braced all day for Gabe to say something. He knew he and Mel spoke about everything. Surely Gabe would say something.

Nothing happened. They talked about grain deliveries, and the odds for the horse racing, and whether or not Nikita was going to marry the Russian girl he was stepping out with. Eventually, EJ stopped worrying, and unwound enough to make fun of Gabe, joking about his hair and his pickiness, and then it was just a normal afternoon, nothing special.

Gabe didn’t want to drink that night, so EJ drove them home, listening to Gabe describe his plan for a general store, a nice legitimate business to set up alongside the crime. Watching the streets of the neighbourhood pass by, he realised most of the snow had receded. It was properly Springtime now. He had come to Toronto expecting to move on after a few months, like he had everywhere else, but the months had passed quickly here. He was staying.

Mel had left hot beef sandwiches in the oven for them, and EJ took his upstairs in paper, chewing as he climbed the stairs, not thinking about anything at all.

In the hall, he realised the door to his room was open, and stopped, sandwich still in one hand. There wasn't any noise, and no one got into the house without Mel knowing.

When he reached the threshold, the single bulb illuminated the inside of the room, and, sitting on his bed, hands between his knees, Sam.

EJ stopped, one hand resting on the doorjam.

“Sam?” he said, and Sam looked up, his lips parting, and then he smiled. “How did you get in here?”

“Mel let me in,” he said. “She fed me. Roast beef.”

EJ held up his sandwich.

“I know,” he said. He felt wrong-footed; he hadn’t expected to find Sam in his bedroom. There was only the single bed to sit on, and EJ sat next to him, closing the door softly. Sam smiled, and then moved his knee to bump against EJ’s.

“I wanted to see you,” he said quietly, and EJ didn’t know what to do with his hands, or his face, or the sandwich. The room was only small, and he reached over to put it on the dresser.

“Uh, thanks,” he said. He tucked his hands between his legs, to try and stop himself from reaching out to touch Sam’s face. He needed to resist the temptation. For a second, he stared at his own hands, listening to the sound of Sam’s breathing, and then Sam’s hand moved into his vision, and touched his wrist, and the top of his hand, and slowly pulled EJ’s hand free to hold it.

“Sam,” he said, looking up, not sure what he was going to say next, but Sam was only waiting patiently, holding his hand and waiting. He had made his move by coming to EJ’s room, and now he was waiting for EJ’s reaction. Time to suck it up Johnson. He wasn’t gainly anything by holding back. This wasn’t like before, when he had nothing to lose. He had a life here, and work, and friends, and a roof over his head. But he could have more.

Slowly, watching Sam’s face for any disgust, or fear, he turned his hand in Sam’s grip, until they were palm to palm. His hand felt warm against the Sam’s, the callouses both of them had bumping against each other. EJ took a deep breath, and then leaned in slowly, keeping his eyes open so he could watch Sam. Just before their mouths touched, Sam’s eyes closed, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheek. And then they were kissing, Sam’s lips against his, just their hands touching, and it was easy to get lost in the feeling. Sam’s hand gripped his tightly, and they turned toward each other. Sam pulled his leg up onto the bed to face him better, and then grabbed at EJ’s shoulder, pulling him closer.

EJ pulled away to catch his breath, and Sam barely gave him a second before he leaned back in, pulling EJ towards him. How was he so sure? EJ felt his heart beating in his chest. They kissed again, open-mouthed, and he could taste Sam, feel his tongue against his own, the intoxicating feeling of someone else against you.

“EJ,” Sam said, on an exhale, when they pulled apart. His hand was on EJ’s shoulder, and his thumb was touching his neck, just pressing against the tendon. His fingers tucked under the edge of EJ’s collar and tugged, biting his lip to stop himself from grinning. “Will you take this off?” he said, looking so pleased with himself, and his expression made EJ smile.

“You want me to take your shirt off?” he said, teasingly, and Sam made a face.

“Don’t make fun,” he said. “Please.”

EJ couldn’t resist that, and his fingers were clumsy on the first buttons of his shirt, Sam watching, his tongue resting on his bottom lip. EJ paused midway, his shirt open to his undershirt.

“Will you too?” he asked. “I want to see you too.”

He reached out to touch Sam’s cheek, amazed that he could, and Sam blushed, and nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, yes, both of us.”

Sam was quicker at his buttons, more eager, and quickly both of them were in their undershirts, and then neither of them paused, peeling off their vests. Sam wasn’t small, EJ knew that, and he had muscles across his shoulders, and stomach to remind him, the pink of his nipples. Sam ran a hand through EJ’s chest hair, tangling his fingers in it, and his smiled was sly as he leaned in to kiss again.

The feel of skin against skin was electric, more overwhelming than anything before, and when they kissed, EJ marveled at being able to run his hands over every part of Sam he could reach, the muscles of his arms, and the arch of his spin, the softness of his skin just above his waistband. It was thrilling, a kind of kissing EJ had never done before, safely in a room no one would disturb, Sam in his arms, pushing him back onto the bed until they were lying down, chest to chest. Sam was heavy, but it didn’t matter, because he could feel him grinding down onto EJ’s leg, feel his hard-on, feel the skin of his chest against his.

Every sound Sam made felt loud, even the quiet sub-vocal sounds of his breathing, the gasps he made when EJ’s hands brushed over his nipples. Sam’s hips moved down, pressing tightly against EJ, and for a second neither of them were kissing, they were just breathing against each other, humping against each other frantically.

“God,” EJ gasped, breaking away for a second. He was hard, but it seemed almost academic, everything felt overwhelming, the heat of the room, the weight of Sam’s body, the sound of his breathing.

“EJ,” Sam said, and then shimmied a little, to get his hand between the two of them. “Can I? Can I?”

“Yeah, yeah,” EJ said, nearly frantic with it. Their hands were tangled up together between them, both of them trying to undo their belts, fumbling the buttons, until EJ’s belt came free, and they pushed EJ’s trousers and drawers down, until his dick was free, and Sam’s hand closed around him, tight enough that EJ inhaled sharply. Sam’s finger flexed, and then he took his hand away, and God, licked his palm, and then his hand, wet enough to slide and EJ can’t help but work his hips into the tightness of Sam’s hand.

“Fuck,” he said. He could feel it coming over him, and he wanted to remember everything, the feeling, Sam’s intense eyes on him, his bare chest and the pale skin of his stomach, and then he couldn’t take it anymore. “Fuck,” he grunted, his shoulders curling up, and came, Sam watching him the whole time.

“Sam, Sam,” he said, as soon as he could talk, and reached for him, pulling him closer, wanting to feel him as close as he could. Sam kissed him frantically, breathing hard, thrusting against EJ’s hips like he didn’t know he was doing it. “God, Sam.”

Sam groaned when EJ got his hand past Sam’s waistband, and felt his dick, hard and leaking at the tip. He wanted to make Sam feel good right away, but when would he get the chance to see him again, when would they have the chance again? He kissed Sam’s neck, and moved them both in the creaky bed, until Sam was on his back, EJ on his hands and knees over his legs.

“Just like that,” EJ said gently, as they both shimmied Sam’s trousers lower, until his dick was free, and the dark shadow of his pubic hair. His stomach moved as he breathed, and his dick curved towards him, flushed and pink, a drop of moisture at the tip.

“EJ,” Sam breathed, and his hand touched EJ’s forehead, and then his hair, and he felt so overcome, he had to put his face against Sam’s thigh, just above his knee, and breathe in the smell of him, musky and smokey.

“You can call me Erik,” he said, quietly, when he could look up, and Sam just smiled at him.

“Erik,” he said, and then put his tongue between his teeth in a grin. He was so young, and beautiful, and every time he looked at EJ he felt old and stupid-looking and overcome with longing. He wanted Sam to never feel as afraid as he had, to only ever fuck in a bed, and he could give Sam that, he could.

Sam’s hand was still in his hair when he finally bent his head and licked his cock, and then sucked lightly on the head, rubbing his tongue along the underside, feeling Sam’s hand tighten in his hair, hearing the quiet sounds of Sam reacting. It was intoxicating, the heavy weight of his cock in EJ’s mouth, and the sounds he was making, that both of them were making, heavy breathing and the wet sounds of saliva. He sucked and bobbed his head, working his tongue and mouth over Sam’s cock, until he was wet and slick, and he reacted every time EJ hollowed out his cheeks.

The only warning he got was Sam’s whole-body jerk, and a quiet “ah!” and then he felt his mouth fill with come, Sam shaking gently under him. He swallowed through it, until Sam pulled at his hair to make him stop. It didn’t taste pleasant, but it was better than spitting, and it was worth the look on Sam’s face, stunned and turned on, and then quickly heavy-lidded.

They kissed, half-undressed, until they both had to kick off their trousers, and then Sam climbed under the blankets, pulling EJ with him, until they were chest to chest, a little uncomfortable in the thin bed, but warm and together.

“It’s okay,” Sam said, both of them barely keeping their eyes open. “Mel said I could stay. No one will say anything.”

EJ chose to believe him. He tucked his nose against Sam’s hair, listening to him breathe. He couldn’t fall asleep until he heard it even out, but then it came quickly, more quickly than it had in years, sleeping like a man who had an easy life.

&&&

That summer, Z was on his honeymoon, a weekend up north at a hotel with his new wife, so EJ went out with Mikko's crew of boys to run the booze south to Buffalo. It was a long drive, mostly just the empty countryside, and they smoked out the window, joking most of the way. They stopped outside Buffalo to eat wrapped sandwiches, and have a nip. Mikko patted his stomach, leaning against the car.

“No fighting on an empty stomach, eh?” he said contentedly. EJ lifted an eyebrow.

“You think there's gonna be a fight?” he asked. He'd told Sam he'd be home by dinner. Mikko shrugged.

Mark the Italian leaned on the car, and made a face. He acted tough, and always carried a gun, but Sam said he was queer and his boyfriend was in the Communist party. Sam had turned out to be a incurable gossip. He said that people liked to talk to the barman, but EJ knew Sam liked knowing things, and talking to people, and was good at making them tell him things. He especially liked telling EJ about the other queer people he had found: Mark and his Communist boyfriend, Tyson and Gabe kissing in the kitchen with Mel’s permission, Caro Ouellette and her American border. Sam said EJ didn’t have to worry, with so many people around, but he still worried. That wasn’t going away.

“Eichel always likes to argue, but there won't be a fight,” Mark said. “Mikko’s just borrowing trouble.”

Mikko shrugged, and they all climbed back in the car. The swap was in an empty warehouse. Eichel turned out to be a pimply guy with curly hair and a permanently angry expression, but he had $300 American, and no arguments about the amount and quality of the booze. They shared a nip, in the spirit of continued sales, and then drove home, taking turns napping in the now-empty flatbed.

At home, in the kitchen, Tyson had his ledger open, and a blank one in front of Sam, watching as he did sums. They liked each other, and Sam said Tyson was teaching him to do more than pour pints.

EJ paused in the doorway, watching Sam’s head, bent-forward over his pencil, until he finally looked up, and their eyes met.

“Good to be home,” he said, taking off his hat, and Sam smiled, in the way that lit up his whole face.


End file.
